Halfway House: A Comedy of Degrees

SHE had followed out Senhouse's precepts as
nearly to the letter as might be; neither staff nor
scrip had she -- no luggage at all, and very little
money. In her exalted mood of resolve it had
seemed a flouting of Providence to palter with the
ideal. To follow -- the patteran unerringly -- a bird's
flight to the north -- one could only fail by hesitation.
Time, and the pressure of that alone, had insisted
on the railway. The road, no doubt, had been the
letter of the law.

Perhaps, too, a map was another compromise;
but she found one in the station where, having made
full use of its water, hair-brushes, and looking-glass,
she dallied in the gay morning light -- hovering
tremulous on the brink of the unknown. It showed
her Wastwater -- where he had told her he was always
to be found; and it showed her Kendal, too, dim
leagues of mountain and moor apart. A loitering
lampman entered into conversation with her. He
was a Langdaler, he told her; used to walk over
once a week to see the old folks; and there was another call he had thither, it seems. There was a

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